Only in My Arms (2 page)

July 1884, The Hudson Valley

Stillness surrounded him. He welcomed it, absorbing it in much the same way a leaf absorbs light, turning into it as if it were necessary to his very existence. He was aware of his slowing heartbeat and of the near-silent passage of each breath. He didn't concentrate on these things, but let them be. They happened of their own accord as he embraced the quiet and calm of
being
in this moment.

He had positioned himself on the lip of a large rock a few feet above the clearing's water hole. He hunkered more than sat, his lean, agile frame folded so that he could rise without hesitation. For now, he did not move. Waiting was its own pleasure.

Had he been asked for what or whom he waited, he would have had no reply. It wasn't important to him, and it wasn't why he sat perched on the edge of the inclined rock. Waiting did not foster impatience or anxiety. Instead, it carried with it a certain heady anticipation that was like the scent of wildflowers lifted on the back of the wind, fleeting and elusive, but something to embrace and enjoy. Waiting gave rise to possibilities and expectations. Anything could happen in the passing of a moment. Anything. It was what he knew to be true and what he felt now.

Ribbons of morning mist rose from the water hole. The perimeter of the clearing was marked off by red cedar, river birch, and white pine, but even their sweeping branches could not crowd out the sun's sure ascent. Heat lifted the shroud of water vapor, and light glanced off its surface. He watched the shifting patterns of light glint and sparkle like so many stars and could almost believe this was a place where the heavens were captured.

That thought brought about the first movement he made, a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth. An observer would have wondered at the smile, for it was at once derisive and amused, a little mocking, a little secretive. He was not embarrassed by the thought that had crossed his mind, but he knew of others who would be embarrassed for him. Poets and philosophers could entertain notions of the heavens being captured in a well of water but United States Army scouts were better off keeping their own counsel.

The hint of a smile faded and his features returned to their resting state of impenetrable impassivity. It was not a cold, stoic expression. The shape of his mouth was not tight or thinly set, and the cleanly carved line of his jaw was not clenched in stony hardness. The source of the implacability that defined his expression was calm.

Through the sleeve of his black oilcloth duster he could feel fingers of heat on his shoulder. As the sun rose higher a band of warmth touched the side of his neck just above the collar of his shirt. A moment later it skimmed across his cheek and then the glossy black thickness of his hair. He made no move to shed the heavy coat or lift his hair where it brushed his collar at the nape. The heat was as welcome as the stillness and the waiting. He raised his face, shutting his eyes momentarily, and breathed sunshine.

She was there when he opened his eyes. She stood on the opposite side of the water hole, flanked by twin birch sentinels. Her path to the water was marked by the natural placement of large rocks rising from the bank like a stone stairway. She made no move toward the water or even to put her bare feet on the flat, sun-warmed rocks. Instead she remained very still and maintained her hold around the clothing she carried in her folded arms. In point of fact, the only clothing she wore was the bundle of fabric draped in front of her.

At first he thought she didn't move because she had seen him. But as he continued to watch her, he realized she did not have the frozen, startled posture of a frightened doe. She was not protectively clutching her clothing in front of her to preserve modesty or dignity. She merely held it. He was struck by the reverence of her posture, the respect she had for this quiet clearing he had only just discovered. Her stillness had nothing to do with him at all, he realized. She was unaware of his observation, and he wished that it might remain so. With no small measure of regret he knew he would have to make his presence known to her. But not yet, he thought selfishly. Not just yet.

Her contemplative state ended abruptly as she tossed her clothing carelessly on the rocks. It lay like a darkly raised bruise against the pale, sun-drenched stones. She didn't appear to give it another thought, not pausing even briefly to straighten or arrange it so it wouldn't wrinkle. In a way he was disappointed that she didn't care more for her garments. He had only an impression of healthy pink skin, elegantly slender curves, and rose-tipped breasts as she ignored the stone stairway and launched herself into the water from where she stood, entering it cleanly and shallowly in an arching, graceful dive that sprayed diamond droplets in her wake.

She didn't come up immediately, and he followed her path as she moved swiftly just below the water. She was as fluid as the element she moved in, her body undulating sleekly in a current of her own creation. The tapered length of her legs moved in unison, propelling her forward in a seductive, almost lazy rhythm. Once he thought she would surface for air in the middle of the water hole, but she dove abruptly and only the curve of her bottom broke the waterline before she went deeper. A smile flickered on his face.

When she finally came up for air it was directly below his perch. He was no longer smiling when she looked up and saw him for the first time. He was still hunkered on the lip of the rock like a bird of prey. His glossy black hair and the long black duster draping the ground around him furthered that impression. Intense gray eyes watched her narrowly above the straight, but somehow aggressive line of his nose.

He didn't say anything, just continued to stare at her. In spite of the flush that was creeping across her skin and heating her cheeks, she didn't duck beneath the water. It wasn't in her nature to run even when common sense dictated she should. With characteristic directness she stared back at him.

Her eyes were remarkably green, he thought, as deeply green as the forest around her. It was a pure pleasure to look into them, and he was in no hurry to look away.

"I don't think you have any shame," she said. In other conditions, in another setting, she would have been able to infuse her words with enough acid to etch glass. This stranger merely smiled at her.

"It's that obvious?" he asked.

She had to draw on a contemptuous glare, which she had been told could leave a bruise. It left the man above her unmoved. She was realistic enough to acknowledge that he had all the advantages. He was on the high ground, on solid footing, and more importantly he was the one wearing clothes. There was simply no dignity in treading water naked. Worse, she was getting tired of doing it.

He watched the tempo of her movements change as she sought purchase among the submerged rocks. He was prepared to lend her a hand when her feet touched on a narrow ledge that would support her. She made no attempt to raise herself out of the water; rather she remained very satisfactorily cloaked by it while she rested. Water glistened on her shoulders and at the hollow of her throat. His eyes strayed up the length of her neck, glanced off her smooth cheek, passed her ear, and then fastened on the red-gold cap of hair that was like a damp helmet on her head.

If her eyes were her most remarkable feature, then her hair was her most unusual. It was not merely the color that made it so, but the length. Closely cropped to follow the shape of her head, it defied any fashion. It lay sleekly against her scalp, the ends of it already drying and curling in the early morning sunshine. Apache women cut their hair when they were in mourning. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she had lost a loved one, a husband or father perhaps, when he remembered she wouldn't understand the question, that New Yorkers certainly didn't observe the same rituals as the Chiricahua, Kiowa, or Mescalero. He touched the back of his neck where his hair brushed the collar. Even at this length it was still longer than hers, yet shorter than he had worn it for most of his life. He had cut it out of respect for the passing of a friend and more regretfully as a concession to New York mores.

As the stranger continued to stare at her hair, she surprised herself by touching it with an air of self-consciousness, tugging on a damp strand near her temple to make it seem longer. That simple gesture was enough to cause him to look away. She wondered what construction he had put upon her cropped hair. Did he think she was ill? That she had lice? That she was a branded adulteress? The sense that he was pitying her forced her chin upward at a defiant, proud angle.

"You're trespassing," she said coolly. "This is private property."

He was unperturbed. "I was invited."

"By whom?"

"The owner."

"That's not possible."

He shrugged. It didn't matter if she believed him or not. "You're not his wife, are you?"

She blinked at that, startled that he thought she would be anyone's wife. Glancing over her shoulder to the opposite side of the pool, she saw her discarded clothes piled on the rock. No, she realized, there were no clues for him there. She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Whose wife would I be?"

"Walker Caide's."

She sidestepped the issue. "This isn't Walker Caide's property. The Granville mansion is a few miles farther up the main road." As she watched with some fascination, color crept just beneath the surface of his sun-bronzed complexion. He was clean-shaven with no beard or mustache or side-whiskers to hide the telltale tide of embarrassment. When it receded, a faint smile touched his mouth, and it was rife with self-mockery.

"I don't think this is a story I'll be sharing with Walker," he said. "Or anyone else."

Before she could ask what it was that amused him about being lost, he stood and shrugged out of his duster. He was tall and leanly muscled, limber and loose in spite of the fact that he had been crouched throughout their conversation. She had no difficulty appreciating that he was what her mother called a "fine figure of a man," but it wasn't his physical appearance that made her react with a small gasp. The gun belt resting on his hips accomplished that.

"You're not from around here, are you?" she said. She supposed she deserved the smirk he tossed off like a flippant remark. "What I mean is, men in Baileyboro don't wear guns."

"Gun," he said. "Singular. Short-barreled Colt .45." He had it unfastened by the time he finished commenting and laid it with some care on his duster. His fingers were deftly moving over his shirt buttons when he added, "Just like the gunslingers wear." He glanced down at her, a single dark brow raised, wondering if she'd rise to the bait. She didn't. The fact that he was taking off his shirt had riveted her attention.

She found her voice when he began to unbutton the fly of his jeans. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

His fingers didn't pause even a beat. "I'm going swimming." He wondered if he could. He had no illusions that he would be as expert as she in the water. At best he would be awkward. At worst... At worst he would drown.

He had been seven years old the last time he was in water deep enough to swim. That was twenty-three years ago on the banks of the Ohio River. He had balked on that occasion until his father had held out a hand and told him once he learned he would never forget. He was about to test the truth of those words now. There was so little he remembered about his father, he hoped that memory wasn't playing him false.

"Not here you're not," she said firmly, as though she believed it was in her power to stop him.

He didn't respond to that. Instead he sat down on the rock before removing his pants and pulled off his dusty boots. He felt as if his entire body was layered with the same dust. The decision to sluice it off in this water hole seemed more inspired with each passing moment. When he stood again to strip out of his jeans and drawers, he saw that he was, for all intents and purposes, alone. She had dived, pushed off the ledge, and was swimming toward the center of the water hole. His face wore its calm, impenetrable mask as he flung himself into the water.

He didn't come up for so long that she grew worried. From her position in the water it wasn't so easy to follow his progress. She ducked below the surface and looked for him. His deep dive had worked up clouds of silt and all but eliminated her underwater vision. She came up when she felt him brush her leg, either by accident or design.

He raked back his thick hair. Droplets of water and sunlight lent it a blue-black sheen. He was very close to her and instinctively she moved away before a swell of water drew them together.

"My father was right," he said.

"About what?"

"I didn't forget."

She supposed he knew what he was talking about. She certainly didn't. "I don't think you should be in here. I told you this is private property." She noticed that she expended a great deal less energy staying near the surface than he did. It would serve him right if he drowned, she thought. Or at least believed he was drowning. She had no illusions that she could let it happen.

"I know. But you also told me it's not Walker's, and I imagine it's safe to assume you're not Walker's wife." He leveled her with his gray glance. "Are you?"

She considered lying. After all, before Skye Dennehy had become Walker Caide's wife she had been known to occasionally skinny dip in this very pool. "No," she said finally. "I'm not Walker's wife."

He considered that as his eyes grazed her face. "Good."